Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
Splinters of Regret
The vial fell — a crystalline sigh rather than a crash — and for the space of a heartbeat nothing moved. But then a lavender mist boiled outward, curling across the floorboards like seawater meeting sand. The hanging lamps dimmed to guttering embers; every glass surface in the shop reflected a different, earlier moment, as though time itself were trying on alternate histories. Miles felt the Warden‑sigil on his palm ignite. The scent of marshfire and peat overwhelmed him — Tarnwood, again, with its chorus of half‑born shadows. He braced against the shelf, muttering a grounding charm through clenched teeth.
Tobias stumbled back, thread‑sense reeling under a storm of unmoored memories. Crimson strands winked in and out of being overhead, ready to snag on anything solid. He flicked his fingers and silver filaments leapt from his spool, weaving themselves into a hurried lattice that tried — vainly — to coax order from the chaos.
Shadows of the Oracle
“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.
[…]
Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.
A Brief Respite (An Ambrose Short)
[…]Ambrose stood behind his old wooden counter, a ledger open before him. He wasn’t writing much, merely tapping his quill and eyeing the empty lines. […] A subdued jingle from the bell announced Father Quinn’s arrival. Tall and composed under his worn cloak, he shut the door gently, shaking off a few stray droplets from the persistent drizzle outside. Ambrose glanced over, one eyebrow arching in mild curiosity.
“Well, if it isn’t the town’s moral compass,” Ambrose said, tapping his quill against the ledger. “You’re either here to exorcise me or to poke through my inventory, Father Quinn. Which is it today?”